a guidebook. Paging through, he smiled. "We're going to a town called Dartmouth, just across the harbor. And I know exactly where we're heading once we get there."
Joe stared at him. "Where?"
"To a phone — we've got to call Sergeant Dundee."
Until then, they enjoyed the view of Halifax Harbor—from the middle of the water.
When the ferry pulled into Dartmouth Terminal, Frank and Joe joined the stream of commuters onto dry land again. There was a pay phone in the terminal building, and Frank dialed Dundee's number.
On the third ring the phone was picked up. "Dundee's line," a clipped voice on the other end answered from what was obviously a squad room.
Frank identified himself and asked for Sergeant Dundee. He was told the policeman wasn't in at the moment, but that he'd return Frank's call if he'd leave a number. "If you mean right away, he can get us at 555-8912," Frank said, reading the number on the phone. "It's a pay phone."
"We'll get him," the voice promised.
The police were as good as their word. Almost as soon as Frank hung up, the phone rang. Gerry Dundee was on the other end.
"Sergeant Dundee, Frank Hardy here," Frank said. "I've got a follow-up report for you." He went on to explain how he and Joe had been followed and how they'd escaped.
"So now you're in the ferry terminal on the Dartmouth side, eh?" Dundee said. "Cross the rail line there, cross Windmill Road, then head up Portland Street. The first place on the right-hand side is a cops' hangout. Wait for me there and you shouldn't have any trouble. I'll be along in fifteen to twenty minutes."
Frank hung up the phone, turned to Joe, and said, "We get to take a little walk."
They followed Dundee's directions, found the place, and spent the next few minutes peering out the window at the street one floor below. It wasn't long before an unmarked car pulled up outside the place. Gerry Dundee stepped out.
He was in a very good mood when he met the Hardys. "So you had to cut your dinner short over there across the water," he said. "Let's make up for it over here — my treat."
Dundee ushered them over to a table, and moments later they were sitting in front of thick, steaming steaks. "Always a favorite of mine," he said, tucking in with the gusto of a man twenty years younger.
He smiled at Joe's slightly surprised look. "The smart mouths in the department wonder how I can tackle these, too," he said. "In their books, old crocks like myself don't have the teeth—or the brains—for real meat or real cases."
Spearing another hunk of medium-rare beef, he popped it into his mouth and began chewing. Then he swallowed and smiled. "They think that once you get to a certain age, you can't take it anymore."
He tapped the side of his head. "But this old brain has more experience and data locked away than all their precious computers. I've found out some stuff — "
Frank asked suddenly, not meaning to interrupt but impatient for news, "Anything said about our case?"
Dundee drew himself up, his face going stiff. "What are you talking about?"
"I mean what was the reaction from your buddies downtown. You'd think they'd show some interest when somebody involved in an attack like the one we went through gave you a call. But the guy I talked to acted as if he'd never heard of me."
Dundee didn't reply. He just stared stonily at Frank.
Frank leveled his gaze and returned the stare.
"Are you investigating this case on your own?"
Nothing. No reply.
"If I'd wanted a one-man show on this case I'd have turned to my brother Joe and let him carry the ball. But we did the right thing, we contacted the police."
Frank leaned across the table. "So, you're holding on to the report on our attack—hiding the facts in your head, with all that other great data. Well, I don't like it. I don't like being staked out like a sacrificial lamb while you try to breathe some life into your career."
"Hey, Frank," Joe began, looking from his brother to Dundee as they continued to
Joe stared at him. "Where?"
"To a phone — we've got to call Sergeant Dundee."
Until then, they enjoyed the view of Halifax Harbor—from the middle of the water.
When the ferry pulled into Dartmouth Terminal, Frank and Joe joined the stream of commuters onto dry land again. There was a pay phone in the terminal building, and Frank dialed Dundee's number.
On the third ring the phone was picked up. "Dundee's line," a clipped voice on the other end answered from what was obviously a squad room.
Frank identified himself and asked for Sergeant Dundee. He was told the policeman wasn't in at the moment, but that he'd return Frank's call if he'd leave a number. "If you mean right away, he can get us at 555-8912," Frank said, reading the number on the phone. "It's a pay phone."
"We'll get him," the voice promised.
The police were as good as their word. Almost as soon as Frank hung up, the phone rang. Gerry Dundee was on the other end.
"Sergeant Dundee, Frank Hardy here," Frank said. "I've got a follow-up report for you." He went on to explain how he and Joe had been followed and how they'd escaped.
"So now you're in the ferry terminal on the Dartmouth side, eh?" Dundee said. "Cross the rail line there, cross Windmill Road, then head up Portland Street. The first place on the right-hand side is a cops' hangout. Wait for me there and you shouldn't have any trouble. I'll be along in fifteen to twenty minutes."
Frank hung up the phone, turned to Joe, and said, "We get to take a little walk."
They followed Dundee's directions, found the place, and spent the next few minutes peering out the window at the street one floor below. It wasn't long before an unmarked car pulled up outside the place. Gerry Dundee stepped out.
He was in a very good mood when he met the Hardys. "So you had to cut your dinner short over there across the water," he said. "Let's make up for it over here — my treat."
Dundee ushered them over to a table, and moments later they were sitting in front of thick, steaming steaks. "Always a favorite of mine," he said, tucking in with the gusto of a man twenty years younger.
He smiled at Joe's slightly surprised look. "The smart mouths in the department wonder how I can tackle these, too," he said. "In their books, old crocks like myself don't have the teeth—or the brains—for real meat or real cases."
Spearing another hunk of medium-rare beef, he popped it into his mouth and began chewing. Then he swallowed and smiled. "They think that once you get to a certain age, you can't take it anymore."
He tapped the side of his head. "But this old brain has more experience and data locked away than all their precious computers. I've found out some stuff — "
Frank asked suddenly, not meaning to interrupt but impatient for news, "Anything said about our case?"
Dundee drew himself up, his face going stiff. "What are you talking about?"
"I mean what was the reaction from your buddies downtown. You'd think they'd show some interest when somebody involved in an attack like the one we went through gave you a call. But the guy I talked to acted as if he'd never heard of me."
Dundee didn't reply. He just stared stonily at Frank.
Frank leveled his gaze and returned the stare.
"Are you investigating this case on your own?"
Nothing. No reply.
"If I'd wanted a one-man show on this case I'd have turned to my brother Joe and let him carry the ball. But we did the right thing, we contacted the police."
Frank leaned across the table. "So, you're holding on to the report on our attack—hiding the facts in your head, with all that other great data. Well, I don't like it. I don't like being staked out like a sacrificial lamb while you try to breathe some life into your career."
"Hey, Frank," Joe began, looking from his brother to Dundee as they continued to
Similar Books
Metal Deep 2: Something Beautiful
G. X. Knight
Touching Spirit Bear
Ben Mikaelsen
Amagansett
Mark Mills
Wistril Compleat
Frank Tuttle
A Twist in the Tale
Jeffrey Archer
Taking Him (Lies We Tell)
Jackie Ashenden
The Lost World of the Kalahari
Laurens Van Der Post
Holy Scoundrel
Annette Blair